


The Sound of Leaves

by Anonymous



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ninjas, Angst, Character Death, Human Experimentation, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War, Slow Burn, Trauma, alot, alot of digging up the past too, alot of ninja battles guys, this is a naruto au that went too far, ww is a super powerful ninja stuck in a love triangle with other powerful ninja
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 11:07:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sicheng wanders across the world he's no longer a part of searching for a lover, an enemy, and a way to repent. And in a way, all of those things lie with one man.Or two.





	The Sound of Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> gghghghghgh  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0OqZhwSRYwE&list=RDcNplZrRSjeI&index=3  
> the theme for this fic...yeah fitting huh
> 
> so this was supposed to be crack but then this happened, and now we have a serious naruto/nct fic  
> also you need like minimal naruto knowledge but it's good to know a bit.

Sicheng remembers wanting desperately to grow up as a child. Back then, the village was constantly on the brink of disaster, and there was always a need. 

 

A need for manpower, a need for professional maturity, for courage, for all those fleeting vague ideas and emotions that people let spill loosely from their mouths. 

 

He remembers the constant flood of men and women passing through and out the gates, bandages slipping to the ground, faces downcast. But even this didn’t deter him. Sicheng watched them trudge back, and even though they seemed worse for wear, beaten down-

 

They were alive, and their shoulders were broad and real. 

 

Sicheng feels the metal of his kunai against his thigh, and breathes in the hazy mist. 

 

Now, he wonders why he didn’t cherish childhood just a little bit more. 

 

A rustle, and Sicheng feels the power come to the very tips of his fingers.

 

Blood seeps into the ground, and he wonders why the dirt sucks it up so greedily. Doesn’t it know? 

 

“G-guh…” The man’s lips are purple, his skin is mottling green, and Sicheng lets the steady glow of his hands work. He feels the poison coursing through and wreaking havoc, and he teases it out. 

 

The chakra comes easily to him, minute and precise, sapping out in just the right proportion, just the right amount. It glows hazily, delicate and eye-catching. Sicheng watches, his concentration not breaking, his body drawn tight, tight like a whip. 

 

The blood drips from the man’s gaping mouth, and his eyes grow hazy. Sicheng hums, his hands pulsing brighter. He feels it. 

 

He feels the delicate strings of the man’s life force, ebbing and running alongside his blood, alongside the spidery veins and sturdy bones. He touches and caresses it sweetly, drawing it back, back to normalcy. 

 

Breathing calms, and Sicheng lifts his hands slowly. 

 

Suspended in the fragile glow, the black ink of the poison hovers. Sicheng lets the breath he had been holding go. It escapes him in one single long exhale. 

 

He brings his hands down, letting the poison pool in an empty vial. Analysis for later. 

 

A gagging cough, and Sicheng turns back to his patient. Dull eyes close, and there’s something gentle and warm boiling deep in his chest for this stranger that he’ll most likely never meet again. His bare fingers brush against this man’s chest, trailing up to rub away at the blood stained along his face. 

 

“You’ll live.” Sicheng lets the words curl, and it settles in his own ears, almost reassuring. 

 

Standing slowly, Sicheng gathers his things back together, slinging his bag back upon his shoulders. The hat slips back on his head, the long brim casting a suitable shadow over his face. 

 

The man will wake soon, most likely sapped of his energy and groggy. Sicheng doesn’t feel a need to stay, especially with that forehead protector so proudly tied around his arm. 

 

The mist is wet on his lips and tongue as Sicheng walks away. It tastes sweet. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“Too slow!” Sicheng had growled in response, eyes wild and hateful as he launched himself at his opponent. That voice was too teasing, and it only riled Sicheng up more. His fists clenched tight, even tighter than before. 

 

Just darting shapes in the grass, they were nothing but blurs then. His feet had hit the ground, steadying his body as he met blows with his sparring partner. 

 

Careless smile, Taeil’s eyes were bright and annoyingly intense. An idiot through and through. His teeth flashed white, and that was when he let out a roll of sharp laughter. Then his body had dropped to the ground to dodge Sicheng’s fist, shockingly fast. 

 

Irritating. Sicheng hated that about Taeil. Always teasing, always careless and joking, yet always infuriatingly talented. 

 

Sicheng’s fist hit the ground, cracking and splintering the earth. The whole world rumbled, and Taeil’s laugh was just that same old ringing bell, scouring his ears and echoing much too loud. 

 

Sicheng wakes, and that laugh follows him back from the depths of sleep. Sicheng just grits his teeth and closes his eyes once more, hoping that his next dream will simply be blank. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The village he enters is a small one, but times seem to change so quickly. The wires criss-crossing the skyline, the chain restaurants with their blinking neons, flashing bright. Even small towns like this have moved beyond in their own way, adapting to the future that they have paved, that they envisioned. 

 

These are peaceful times. This is a peaceful era, and Sicheng finds it ironic that he can’t even savor the peace he helped establish. 

 

People walk by, their words casual and soft. There’s no need for bravado or strength, it’s fine to simply be. Sicheng finds it an odd world to be in. 

 

To think that a person like him is simply a relic of a bloodier and baser past. 

 

The wind rustles his hat, and Sicheng makes sure the brim of his hat is drawn tight. 

 

His sandals pad softly against the ground, concrete and asphalt. He ducks into an alley, and the shadows along the ground lengthen. Sicheng watches the shape of his own shadow tremble. 

 

A bar. The sign swings, chains rusty and cracking. Sicheng pulls open a stained and scarred door, a bell rings, and the whole bar seems to turn towards him in one single pause. 

 

Now, this is something Sicheng understands well. 

 

The floorboards creak beneath his feet as he paces steadily towards the front of the bar. The bartender doesn’t look up, simply continuing to polish the same stained and dirty glass. It will never be clean, but it doesn’t hurt to try, right? Sicheng watches as the cloth swipes and dabs, repetitive and useless. 

 

Huh. Sicheng brings his hands up to the wood, long slender fingers, unscarred and unmarked. The bartender seems to study his hands, and Sicheng lets a smile grow on his lips. He knocks lightly on the wood, the two raps echoing in the eerie pause in sound. 

 

“Just wondering if you could answer some questions.” The bartender’s eyes are dark, and his scowl seems so permanently etched into his face. 

 

“Information comes for a price.” Sicheng pulls his hands off the bar table, his hat shielding the numerous glares slowly settling upon his face. His cloak feels thin, and it is. It’s too thin. 

 

“I’m afraid that I don’t have much to offer you.” Sicheng pulls his lips up, showing his teeth in a practiced smile. The whole room seems to take his words as a sign of aggression, and Sicheng senses the hitching breaths, the tightening tendons. 

 

“Then I can’t tell you a thing.” Sicheng only grins wider. His hands slowly trail up to the brim of his hat, pulling it up in one smooth motion. The light falls upon his face, and Sicheng’s eyes curl sweetly. It takes the bartender a moment to realize who he is. 

 

His hands settle back on the table of the bar, this time as a clenched fist. 

 

The crash, the wood splintering in a thousand different directions, the crash of bottles, of glasses, liquor leaking from every crevice, every crack, the destruction is all but a dull background in Sicheng’s ears. 

 

All that’s left is a mess of wood and glass upon the bar floor. The bartender stands a foot away, his hands clutching the last unbroken glass and a dirty rag. His mouth is tugged down in shock, and Sicheng only smiles even sweeter. His hands finally come up, pulling away his hat fully from his head. 

 

He turns, and the eyes of the bar patrons settle upon him in shock, awe, fear, it’s all so palpable. 

 

Sicheng’s gotten good at sensing things like this. 

 

“Now, I have some questions for you all to answer, and I’m afraid the only thing I can barter with is your own safety.” His voice seems to float, and Sicheng studies the men and women in the room. 

 

All chips and pieces of a different life. Much like him in a way. 

 

So he isn’t surprised when those gazes burn and spark, and Sicheng finds ten fists hurtling at his face, and several kunai directed straight at his head. He only embraces it with a kind of familiarity, eyes growing steel cold as he lets his chakra flow hot and heavy into his fists. 

 

He grabs the body of one of the attackers, swinging them around in one solid and fluid motion. The other assailants go down, thrown back by sheer force. The kunai stick straight into the back of the man he holds. Sicheng hears the soundless exhale that ripples through the body. Pain. 

 

He lets go of the man’s arm, noting the definite fractures in his arms. Just slight impairments. The kunai didn’t hit any vital points either. The man will live. 

 

Studying the rest of the fallen men, Sicheng gazes at them. Their bodies are crumpled in, and Sicheng catches a few bruised ribs and broken bones. Not bad. 

 

The sound of harsh breath alerts Sicheng of an impending attack. The man is fast, but he’s faster, and Sicheng jumps away at the right moment, letting the flames of a fire jutsu eat away at the wooden boards of the structure. His opponent’s eyes flicker with heat, and Sicheng only smiles appreciatively. 

 

Fists slam as Sicheng lets himself rush forward. He meets the metal of a kunai, but the tremendous burst of chakra that escapes his fist is overwhelming. 

 

He’s blown through hundreds of people with a single punch, what does one weapon stand? 

 

The man is thrown back so fast that he shoots straight through the wall of the building, wood further crumbling. His body, limp, sailing through the air like a weightless thing. It skids against the earth, and Sicheng notes that the man isn’t moving anymore. Just a few broken ribs and a fractured ankle. Nothing too severe. 

 

Sicheng turns back to where the bar used to be. 

 

The bartender stares back and the fear there is so comforting and natural. Ah, now this is the world he’s used to. 

 

It’s a pity, Sicheng thinks as he slowly crosses over to the trembling man, eyes shaking. 

 

It’s a pity that he can’t handle anything more complicated than violence. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Taeil’s grin didn’t even dull on the darkest and gloomiest of days, fields scattered with broken bodies, and blood staining them all so deeply that their own skin seemed to be tinted red for life. Sicheng remembers rubbing his fingers together, touch tacky and sticky as he tried his best to rid himself of it. The color. 

 

The tent would be filled with people then, groaning and cursing left and right. There never seemed to be enough hands to help, just Sicheng and his small team of medical-nin, barking orders and futilely trying to combat the worst of the casualties. 

 

The people beneath him would struggle and plead, but wordlessly. That was the strength they all had, the code that became embedded into their hearts and minds. When they swore themself to this duty, this was the inevitability that they assigned to themselves. 

 

But Sicheng wouldn’t let them go. If resigning themselves to inevitable pain was their duty, then his would be to drag them back from that precipice, and pump blood back into their veins. 

 

Closing up wounds, drawing out poison, regenerating organs, Sicheng just let his chakra work its magic, fingers nimble and precise in their application, in their specialized touch. They didn’t whisper his name behind cupped hands for a reason, they didn’t spread details of his work, of his prowess for no discernable reason. 

 

Lazy, blank eyes. Sicheng would stare deeply into those gazes, and simply smile. 

 

Because they lived. They would live, and Sicheng could lessen the pain of his village, of those back home, waiting with their hands clasped. 

 

Because it lessened the guilt of everything else, of his fists sinking deep into the ground and cracking bones and flesh. 

 

When that breathing finally stilled, then Sicheng could let his hands fall away easily. He could stand and hold himself tight like everything was alright and understandable. 

 

“Sicheng.” Taeil always parted his way through crowds easily. Smile bright, eyes twinkling happily even in the constancy of death, even in the midst of misery, Taeil looked at him the same way. 

 

Optimistic, hopeful, attentive. 

 

The groaning of a man trying to fend off the pain of a rapid poison, the screams of a woman trying to suffer through the extraction of a particularly deep senbon, and then Taeil, grin large as the blood smeared along his cheek dried. 

 

It’s not his. Sicheng knows better than to assume that any of the enemy ninja even managed to land a hit on Taeil. 

 

They called him the Great Sage. A silly name. Just as silly as the one they gave him. What was it? Sicheng doesn’t even bother remembering things like that. 

 

“If you don’t have injuries, then leave.” Sicheng’s voice is sharp, and his eyes feel cold. He pushes past Taeil, ready to receive the next patient. 

 

The wounded come back in droves. 

 

A hand grasps his wrist, and Sicheng scowls, ripping it out of Taeil’s grasp in a single instant. He meets Taeil’s clear gaze, mouth held loosely with amusement. 

 

In his flak jacket, his forehead protector tied loosely around his neck, the other man is somehow not just another hapless soldier in the tides of war. No. Taeil looks at him, mouth ready to grin, and hope staining every corner of his face. 

 

Optimism. It’s a bright thing, and it fills up Taeil’s whole being to the point that Sicheng can sense it. 

 

“You’re working yourself too hard, hime.” Sicheng hates that name. 

 

“It’s my duty. I’m sorry if this is all still a game to you.” Like pieces of broken metal, rough and harsh in the air. But Taeil just smiles, leaning back and relaxing into himself. 

 

The way he studies Sicheng is so familiar, yet so undecipherable. Always. Always watching like that. 

 

“I don’t want to see you suffer. But that’s sort of inevitable in times like these, right?” A finger gently brushes over his skin, and Sicheng hates the tenderness of this exchange. Taeil’s words are sweet, and if Sicheng was weaker, more clueless, he would lean into that touch. 

 

But he doesn’t. Sicheng just grabs Taeil’s wrist and puts some of his brutal strength into his grip. The sound of aching bone, and Taeil is pulling away with a colorful wince, lips wrenched into a grimace as he yelps. 

 

The whole tent looks on, and there’s even the sound of laughter. 

 

Sicheng watches Taeil whimper exaggeratedly, eyes bright and pleading. 

 

“For people like us, suffering is necessary.” Maybe Sicheng even winces himself, the way his soft and smooth words slide so effortlessly through the air. Taeil’s childish expression drops, and Sicheng watches the corners of his eyes tug down. 

 

His smile grows melancholy, and something imperceptible softens. Sicheng watches it, and it seems to be pity, rising fast and settling quick.

 

He hates that look. 

 

So just as Taeil opens his mouth again, body loose and aching to be nearer, Sicheng just turns. He walks away without another word, face tight and stoic as he lets the next patient drag themself onto the table, bleeding and broken. 

 

His hands will mend them back together, no matter what, Sicheng will make things right. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The information is delightful. It makes Sicheng smile dryly to himself for once, and it’s this small affirmation that allows him to keep on walking forward, sandals squelching in the mud. The rain is thick now, truly befitting of the Land of the Rain. 

 

The droplets slide thick and heavy off the brim of his wide hat. His jacket is held close to his body, tied in place with a belt. The lingering warmth is enough to tide him over in this sudden cool chill. 

 

A puddle, it splashes, and Sicheng doesn’t let the irritation flare like it normally would. It’s useless trying to stay dry in such a downpour. 

 

The land itself is beautiful in the rain. In Fire Country, rains like this are few. Never downpours like this, water seeping and draining into every crevice, soaking miles upon miles of gurgling earth. 

 

Mist rises steadily, and Sicheng studies the hazy cloud. Everything is tinted grey, but it doesn’t dull. No. The water cleanses. 

 

Garish greens, vibrancy that takes itself too far, the rain soothes those harsh colors into muted serenity. Sicheng lets his eyes trace over all there is, and he wishes he could just reach out and let himself sink into this peace. 

 

But to do that would be to reject his duty. 

 

Sicheng’s hands simply reach out, palm up, and lets the water trickle along the lines of his palm, tracing along those lines of terrible fate that have already been fulfilled. 

 

Or maybe there’s even more misery ahead, Sicheng doesn’t care anymore. 

 

He just lets himself continue to walk forward, head tipped down as the rain drowns out all of those useless and unachievable desires. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Stupid.” Sicheng’s hair was drawn back neatly, eyes lidded as he crossed his legs. He sat neatly on the log, mouth curling up into a teasing smile as Taeil struggled against the rope tying him down. 

 

“You all cheated!” Taeil’s yell sent animals scattering, and Sicheng could only roll his eyes. 

 

Yuta stood beside him, eyes dark and cool as he leaned against another log. 

 

Soramaru laughed harsh and bright. The bell jingled as Sicheng held it up, dangling from between his fingers. Yuta’s own bell was tucked into his pocket already. 

 

Taeil groaned loudly, pouting as he looked up at Soramaru with some kind of plea. 

 

“The both of them couldn’t have gotten the bell without my help. This isn’t fair!” His feet kicked, and Yuta seemed to huff out of amusement. Sicheng only let his bell jingle, mouth tightening as he lowered his hands. 

 

Soramaru stood in front, his face turned away from the other two kids. . 

 

“Rules are rules. The one without the bell is sent back to the Academy.” Soramaru’s voice was suddenly cold, and Sicheng’s lips tightened further. 

 

Taeil was speechless, mouth only agape as he stared at Soramaru uselessly. 

 

Sicheng had let his eyes dart to Yuta, who seemed unphased. The other boy just seemed to leave it at that, nonchalant and uncaring. Sicheng gritted his teeth. 

 

“Sorry, Taeil, but-” Soramaru is cut off, Sicheng’s voice acid sharp. 

 

“No. I’ll give him my bell.” His feet touched the ground, dirt kicking up as Sicheng had strode up to Soramaru, who towered over him then, brown eyes flickering with some kind of feigned surprise. 

 

“It’s true. We couldn’t have done it without him. He deserves it as much as we both do.” Sicheng’s hands had thrust out, bell jingling and glinting in the fading sun. Sicheng tried his best to keep his expression still, not wanting to let his true anxiety leak out. 

 

Soramaru had only stared, head cocking after a moment. 

 

“Are you saying you’d sacrifice your own genin status?” Soramaru had looked down at him, his eyes piercing in that instant. 

 

This was one of the best shinobi in their village, and gazing him straight-on, Sicheng could feel the fear begin to coagulate in his very bloodstream. 

 

Sicheng didn’t look back at Taeil. He couldn’t let himself. Instead, he let his eyes flicker over to Yuta for a moment. 

 

The other boy had only sent him a disapproving glance. Hah. Sicheng could give less of a shit what that pretty boy thought. So, gripping his fists tight and gritting his teeth, Sicheng had just looked up at Soramaru and let his voice grow rough. 

 

“If you aren’t going to be fair, if you aren’t going to recognize what’s right and wrong, then I’ll gladly give it up.” With that, Sicheng had let go of the bell, letting it chime in the dust beneath his feet. 

 

Soramaru’s eyes had burned, and Sicheng just held himself tall, boiling with that young optimism and naivety that only signaled his sheer ignorance of the world’s workings. 

 

But that was then, and it was acceptable then. 

 

“You all pass.” Taeil had yelled, Yuta had grunted under his breath, and Sicheng had only let his shoulders relax, eyes still burning as he let a reluctant smile gloss over his features. 

 

A first victory, and the beginnings of everything terrible and miserable that would inevitably come his way. Because when he turned, Sicheng would be met with the heady admiring gaze of Taeil, and Soramaru would remember those foolish words, and tuck them into the back of his mind. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The inn he stays in is alight with sound all of a sudden, and Sicheng wakes up, clutching his kunai and ready to fight. But he’s not on the battlefield anymore, and there’s no need to be so cautious, so ready to spill blood. 

 

The world is dark, yet shouts and echoing voices bounce off the walls of the inn. Sicheng only stands up after a moment, hands still clenched tight. He makes his way steadily towards the hall. 

 

He opens the door a crack, and gets a better earful of the commotion. 

 

“It’s too early! We were supposed to get to the Village of the Hidden Rain. This isn’t right!” The man’s voice is tense and fraught, and Sicheng only lets himself stray closer and closer. 

 

He can’t help it. Those foolish instincts of his are coming back. 

 

“Calm down. There’s a doctor near us. We can call them quickly, and they’ll be over soon.” Hushed voice, and Sicheng only lets the sound of heavy breathing fill his mind. 

 

A woman’s pained moan, and it’s fraught with fear. A grunt of frustration, and Sicheng finds the sounds soothing in a way. 

 

Reminiscing. 

 

Sicheng lets his feet pad slowly, and somehow, he finds himself pushing open the door. He’s forgotten his hat in his room, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe letting them see is the better choice. 

 

His hair drapes thick down his back, mussed from sleep, but Sicheng enters gracefully, head high and posture proud. 

 

The woman is groaning, her belly huge as she struggles to fight back against the contractions. Her companion is clutching her hand, eyes wild and dilated as they study Sicheng with some kind of intense ferocity. 

 

The inn-owner lets his eyes trail up, and the flare of recognition is like a sudden burst, altering and warping the features of his face. The couple take a bit longer, and they both gasp a bit. 

 

“Y-you’re…” The inn-owner just leaves his sentence hanging, and Sicheng only kneels, hands gentle as they place themselves on the woman’s belly. Closing his eyes, he feels the strings of chakra there, the shape of the bone, the hard press of every organ and structure. 

 

“Not fully dilated yet. Let’s wait until the contractions are 3 minutes apart to really start pushing. You. Get me warm water and towels.” His voice is sharp and professional, and the inn-owner jumps to his feet, leaving the room in a sudden rush. 

 

The man is still gaping, and Sicheng makes sure to speak harshly. 

 

“Get her legs spread, and lay her back fully on the bed. Judging from the fact that this is your first, this might take awhile. But the child is healthy, and I’m completely sure that there will be no complications.” The man nods, swallowing dryly, and Sicheng lets his eyes fall on the woman. 

 

Her breathing is harsh, a bit like the breathing of those in the throes of death. The pain comes close, but at the end of this-

 

Funny how life and death are so similar. To attain both, excruciating pain is required. 

 

That’s the thought that sticks in his mind when she finally gives that final push, screaming and shaking as blood streams out, and the child slips into his hands. Messy and small, absolutely ugly and wrinkled, but perfect and whole. Sicheng watches the small expression shift, and there’s soon a small scream echoing in the chamber. 

 

The mother’s tears are hot, and Sicheng passes the child over to her. She holds them close, and there’s something so blissful in the way she smiles. 

 

The room is dusty and small, the lights are low and odd, and the bed is absolutely stained, blood dripping and soaking. But even then, Sicheng stands back, watching, and finds his own heart softening. 

 

He’s happy for them. Sicheng smiles, slow and wistful, and lets himself withdraw.

 

This isn’t a place for him to intrude. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


It was after they became chunin, grins smeared on all their faces as they passed each test with flying colors, that things really began to change in those small, imperceptible ways. 

 

To all, it was clear that Soramaru’s Team 9 was filled with talent. Sicheng himself already had expectations riding on his back. He was the son of a rather prestigious ninja family, famed for their massive quantities of chakra. It ran in the family, in his surname. 

 

It didn’t help that he was the heir to this name as well. A young master. 

 

Yuta was not so assimilar. He was a natural genius, with an affinity for everything. He mastered weapon throwing long before anyone else, he knew jutsus before anyone else, and back at the Academy, he was the star pupil. 

 

Talented, and with a surname that was befitting. He was much like Sicheng in many ways, another young master set to become the all-powerful head. 

 

If Sicheng was foolish and just a little-bit more hot-headed, he would’ve seen Yuta as a rival, not an acquaintance or ally. 

 

And then. 

 

There was Taeil. 

 

All brute power and strength, no finesse. No rhyme or reason to his movement, just untapped power that flowed from him in one unsteady blast. He put force into everything he did, mangling his way through jutsus, but doing it all with such determination and sheer perseverance that it escaped him. 

 

Soramaru called him “unpolished.” Yuta just rolled his eyes and called him an “idiot.” And Sicheng would just sit there, mouth teasing as he called Taeil “clumsy.” Because he was. 

 

He had the talent maybe. But Sicheng knew that Taeil had not a clue what to do with everything he had. 

 

Sitting on the logs with Yuta, they would just watch with small grins on their faces as Taeil failed his jutsu again. And again. His eyes would always return to Sicheng, pleading and searching, and back then… 

 

Ever since he stood up for the other boy, Sicheng had Taeil follow after him like a lost child. 

 

It lasted, and no matter how much Sicheng spat out barbed words, and pushed Taeil away with his fists clenched, the boy clung.

 

Those eyes settled on him, all bright and searching, and Sicheng. Well. It would be safe to say that deep down back then, Sicheng secretly enjoyed that dependent gaze. It made him feel…

 

Needed. Maybe. But it would be embarrassing to admit that. It would even be degrading. 

 

Imagine the heir to the Dong family linking hands with someone like Taeil, with no name, and no parents to speak of. Just his insane smile, and those wild eyes, and all that unrestrained power that made the council members scoff during the Chunin Battles. 

 

Now, Yuta. That was a friend his parents could accept. Sicheng turned his face, and watched the cool expression there, tight and reigned. 

 

The pretty boy. Sicheng remembered all the girls in their class going crazy over him. They loved him desperately, and the thought made Sicheng a little bit sick. 

 

Honestly, the boy was probably more of an idiot that Taeil was. Pretending and putting on all these airs to maintain his image, Sicheng snickered, and felt Yuta’s gaze fall on him, dark and piercing. 

 

“What?” Yuta was cold as always. But Sicheng ignored that standoffishness. 

 

“Now that we’re chuunin, we’ll get harder missions.” The remark went unanswered, and Taeil let out a sharp yell as Soramaru pinned him down with a kunai. The boy was stumbling over his own feet now, but Sicheng didn’t worry. 

 

“When the time comes, we have to work together.” Sicheng let his feet touch the ground. Yuta only shifted slightly, hair falling over his eyes. His hands dug deep into his pockets. 

 

“Can I count on you? Can we count on you?” His voice grows tense. 

 

Yuta looked up at him then, and Sicheng noted the slight softness there. Maybe he wasn’t so hardened after all. 

 

“I trust you enough to not need my help.” It’s succinct, and Sicheng found himself surprised. There was a pause, and Sicheng just let out a laugh. Yuta shifted awkwardly. Was he embarrassed? 

 

He should’ve known. 

 

“What about him?” Yuta doesn’t let his eyes fall towards Taeil, but Sicheng does, turning his head to look. 

 

Taeil managed to escape Soramaru, legs kicking as he sprinted to avoid a well-aimed fire jutsu. Sicheng sighed, and the sound somehow reached Taeil, whose head whipped towards him in an instant. 

 

Hands cupped over his mouth, and Sicheng was already sneering as Taeil shouted at him. 

 

“AFTER THIS LET’S GET SOME RAMEN!” Sicheng rolled his eyes and Taeil yelped when Soramaru finally caught up. A burst of flame, and Sicheng hears another pained cry over the roar of flame. 

 

He turns back to Yuta. 

 

And what he sees is a little bit terrifying. 

 

Tight lips, furrowed eyebrows, all Sicheng saw was pure and simple disdain. No. No, maybe it ran deeper than all that. His jaw clenched, and Sicheng could only back away. 

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Sicheng’s whisper was met with that same intense gaze, simmering with hatred. He couldn’t understand then, he couldn’t understand why back then. 

 

“Go side with the fuck-up then.” Yuta turned, and left like that. The wind blew cold over them, and all Sicheng could do was stare, heart thudding in his chest. 

 

At that point, all he could do was push it down into the very depths of his mind, and pretend that everything was alright, fine. What team didn’t have their spats? 

 

If only he realized the true nature of those words. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Sicheng reaches the dingy town by dawn. It rests in an idyllic location, sloping along the hills and valleys by a lake, vast and blue. But the rain colors the sky often, and all it leaves is variations upon variations of gray. Nonetheless, it’s beautiful, and the scent of the fresh waters carry far. 

 

The town is old, and Sicheng watches the occupants, aged and bent over, walk steadily along dirt roads. It’s a relic of the past. And Sicheng finds it fitting. 

 

For both him, and the one he seeks. 

 

The wooden structures seem to be on their very last legs, the wires criss-crossing the town are frayed and misaligned, and there’s no raucous sounds. Just the steady beat of rain against tin roofs or clay roof tiles. 

 

As he walks, he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. 

 

How is it that such a village is able to spike familiar fear into him? Sicheng knows. Sicheng knows why.

 

Ignoring the sensation, Sicheng just tugs his hat down, and continues to walk ahead, letting his feet pad along soft grass and softening earth. The trickling water follows his downward, down the valley, towards the lake. 

 

In the distance a worn dock stands, and the lake reflects some kind of bleakness back towards him. Sicheng accepts the vision, and lets himself continue to pass through. 

 

The lake is a good place. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


The war came, and in that time, in those preparation stages, Team 9 was the one that took the lead. No longer just chunin, they were the apprentices of some of the greatest ninja to ever exist. They parted the seas, reshaped the land, and did it all alongside each other. 

 

Sakura had taught him personally with Soramaru’s suggestion. With his great reserves of chakra, and his precise control, Sicheng was one of the most foremost candidates for her teaching among his peers. 

 

But maybe they had seen Sicheng’s own blind naivety and devotion to moral good. Maybe they saw Sicheng’s own ignorant and blind beliefs in right and wrong, and decided that they needed to capitalize upon it the best they could. 

 

So under the tutelage of Sakura, Sicheng began his training, brutal and taxing, but it paid off didn’t it? He stood on the battlefield, hair swept neatly behind his ears as he saved one life after the other. 

 

He stood on the battlefield as he blew the ground to pieces, single fist dismantling the footholds of every enemy in his way. Cracking ribs, cracking skulls, bodies after bodies, falling to the sheer violence that he held and cradled in his palms.  

 

He stood on the battlefield, whispering sweet words as his ally gasped to be saved. And Sicheng did. He saved him. He saved them, hands glowing with soft light into the morning, through the night. 

 

To save and to kill, those two acts blended and blended, until it felt the same on his tongue, in his mind. 

 

The rhombus on his skin, the seal that marked his forehead, it was a sign. A sign of both death and life. The Strength of Hundred Seal, it marked just that. 

 

He was caught in limbo, and he will forever be caught in fragile limbo. 

 

But he wasn’t alone on this peak. No. 

 

Yuta’s hands crackled with lightning as the bolts drew across the field, snapping and burning through the land. Taeil’s own yells echoed across, his massive Rasengan sending hundreds flying. 

 

Sicheng heard bodies hit the ground, and it was like the soft rumble of a train passing by. 

 

“There’s injured over here!” A frantic yell, and Sicheng just nodded, eyes fierce as he reached the line of wounded. Their injuries heal quick, and he still has strength. He always has strength. 

 

After all, this is his duty, isn’t it? There must always be strength left. To keep on fighting, to keep on living, to keep on surviving- 

 

To keep on saving, and to keep on killing. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The lake is still, just the small raindrops leaving ripples cascading across the surface. Sicheng walks slowly, relishing every step. 

 

These are moments that need to be savored. 

 

He finally makes his way onto the dock, head bowed as the water rolls off his hat. It’s held up pretty well over his journey, over these few years, chasing after the fleeting footprints of his past. 

 

The past that meets him now. 

 

Turning, he lets the hat drop, and it flutters into the lake, floating along the surface gently. The rain drops make pretty noises as they land, all delicate and soft. 

 

His feet are wet, his clothing is slowly soaking, and the hair along his face grows dark with moisture. A wet lock of hair curls along his face, and Sicheng clenches his fist with an expression he hasn’t been able to call back for years. 

 

Dark hair, the same piercing eyes, Yuta stands at the other end of the dock. Tall and limber, shoulders strong as the rain pelts him. There’s a sword on his hip now, and Sicheng wonders what has changed these few years. 

 

That’s a question he can answer himself honestly, but he wants to hear it come from Yuta himself. 

 

“Sicheng.” Ice cold. The other man strides forward. Sicheng holds his ground, eyes half-lidded as they lock on. Neither of them will concede. 

 

They were once equals, all of them. Taeil, Sicheng, and Yuta. Each just as powerful as the other, and there was no escaping that, this cursed equilibrium that still exists between the two of them. 

 

A shame, truly a shame. 

 

“You look well.” Yuta’s voice curls thick and heavy, and Sicheng doesn’t react, only letting his mouth fall deeper. He’s gritting his teeth now. All those emotions are pulsing bright and hot, all those emotions that he has tried to suppress. 

 

Because that was the past, and the past has no room to existence in this glorious future they have carved. 

 

But how does it work when Yuta stands before him like this? Older maybe, but identical to the boy that scoffed at every little thing, identical to the teenager who snorted into his ramen when Taeil started choking on fish cake, identical to the cold-blooded killer, who struck down hordes sitting on top of Aoda, the scent of lightning and burnt skin tainting the air. 

 

Identical to the man who told Sicheng he would come back for him, only to disappear. 

 

“You’ve aged.” He doesn’t know how to speak to Yuta. He doesn’t even know. 

 

“I have. But they do say men grow more attractive with age.” Yuta steps toward him now, closer and closer, until the man’s black cloak seems to brush against his own chest, and those black eyes focus in so intensely upon Sicheng’s face that it feels invasive. 

 

“I hate those kinds of words. You think I got enough of that from Taeil.” The name is a stone, and it colors the air between them red and black. Sicheng knows that, and he feels a small tinge of joy in seeing Yuta’s expression. 

 

Distaste, what Sicheng had thought was distaste was hatred. Hatred and jealousy, so dark and poisonous that it leaked and smeared itself deep into Yuta’s soul, into every crack. 

 

“Don’t talk about him when you’re with me.” The hand that touches him is shrugged off. Sicheng doesn’t care for things like that anymore. 

 

He can’t afford to be frivolous. 

 

“Don’t pretend you love me, I see through you. None of your bravado will get past me.” The words ring and ring, and Sicheng watches as Yuta’s anger grows and bubbles, tar black and hostile. 

 

“There’s no one else who will love you, Sicheng. No one.” He’s right, but Sicheng doesn’t ask for love anymore. 

 

The world can’t afford him any, and what he had is already gone. 

 

“And even so, I would never go back to you.” Words printed neatly and starkly, drawn out into the pale sky between them. Stamped out onto the wall that separates them, the wall that has grown miles thick, miles high. 

 

Sicheng prefers it this way. He isn’t young or naive anymore. He can’t be young or naive anymore, no matter how youthful the Strength of Hundred Seal keeps him. 

 

“I meant what I said years ago.” Sicheng doesn’t move as Yuta leans towards him, their breaths touching. Intimacy, but a false one. 

 

It’s an intimacy built on misconception, deceit, and obsession. 

 

“You’re made for me, and only me.” The fingers that grip his shoulder are painful, and those words are sharp and stabbing. Sicheng feels it all, and only breathes in and out deeply. 

 

His own hand raises slowly, and it cups Yuta face in an odd mimicry of care. 

 

All he can say is no. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The battlefield is clear, and the bodies of their allies, the bodies of their enemies, they all lay side by side, joined together in death. 

 

They found peace in death, and oddly enough, Sicheng found himself wishing just a bit for the same kind of serenity. 

 

“Are you alright?” Taeil’s voice was  worrisome in his ear, and Sicheng just turned with a scowl. 

 

“Shut up and pay attention to the battle ahead of you.” Taeil smiled, and Sicheng huffed before turning to look at Yuta. 

 

The man met his eyes, and offered his own nod of assurance. 

 

Sicheng let his eyes drift down. 

 

Every face that stared up, stared blankly. And Sicheng wondered to himself if his hands had only been a bit quicker, what the outcome could’ve been. 

 

To heal, to kill. These are the only two options, and somehow, none of them even seem right. But none of them seem wrong either. 

 

“Watch out!” Taeil’s voice was a soft thing in his ear, and Sicheng just let his instincts go. He dodged quickly, eyes flashing as a huge summon managed a giant strike in their direction. From afar, Sicheng could see the Amekage atop the head of the salamander, arms crossed. 

 

Hm. Sicheng looks towards his team. 

 

They know the drill, the familiar pattern that’s become their everyday routine. They know the sound of pumping blood, and the feeling of chakra releasing from their bodies in vast quantities. 

 

“Kuchiyose no Jutsu!” The blood ran from their thumbs, and their voices united in tandem. 

 

The seal stretched out along the ground, and Sicheng felt himself rise up in the air, wind flowing through his hair as Katsuyu rose up from the summoning. Her voice was a delicate chime, and Sicheng only smirked as they finally gathered the full attention of their opponent. 

 

Taeil was bantering loudly with Gamabunta already, and Sicheng felt irritation flare. 

 

Yuta meanwhile, stood atop Aoda silently, hands tucked neatly into his pockets. 

 

A rumble, and they all let their gazes fall onto the Amekage. In the distance, Sicheng sensed the gathering of chakra, and let himself drop off onto the ground. He looks up. 

 

“Katsuyu, quickly remove and heal any surviving ninja, no matter what affiliation.” The slug chimed her assent, and Sicheng crossed his arms as Katsuyu divided, thousands upon thousands of slugs slipping out and over the field. 

 

Their bodies were all still, but there must be something able to be saved. 

 

“You’re healing ninja that are going to come back and fight us.” Yuta’s voice was cold, and Sicheng bore the weight of his disappointment. But he didn’t flinch, only kept silent as he walked forward. 

 

Taeil bit his tongue. 

 

“As a medical-nin, I heal. I do what’s right to preserve lives. That’s what I do, Yuta.” Sicheng clenched his fists tight, eyes closing and fingers joining together. 

 

The seal on his forehead burned, the force of the jutsu working its way through Sicheng’s body. He felt the inky black of the tattoo continue to curl around his face, down his eyes, across his body. 

 

Creation Rebirth. 

 

“Hime.” Taeil’s endearment was sweet but unfitting. His eyes settled on Sicheng in that familiar adoring way, the same way since their time as genin. Sicheng looked, and found himself afraid of it. 

 

Yuta stared at him, and in those pools of inky black, Sicheng watched the doubt in there grow. 

 

Good. 

 

“Our opponent is strong. Maybe even stronger than us. But, we’re ready, aren’t we?” His own voice sounded unfamiliar in his own ears, and as those blindly brave words flowed out, his fists clenched tighter and tighter. 

 

“Yes. I’m ready.” Taeil’s voice sounded oddly mature in that moment. Maybe a trick of the ear. 

 

Yuta’s silence was taken as assent. 

 

The salamander’s tail thugs against the ground, cracking earth. Gas leaks from its pores, inky purple and toxic. The cloud comes for them quick, and Sicheng doesn’t spare his team one single glance. Not one. 

 

They are strong, and he will trust that. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The sword that stabs quick and slices far is crackling with lightning, Yuta’s hands are weaving skillfully to try and injure him. Sicheng only dodges every single jab, breath calm as he slides carefully along the water of the lake. 

 

Their feet dance along the water, chakra keeping them afloat. 

 

Yuta charges a fist of lightning straight into the lake, and Sicheng leaps up just as the waters spark and hiss. Yuta flies up to meet him, sword aiming straight for his neck. 

 

To kill. This is to kill, and no matter how much Yuta lets those words of love flow, Sicheng knows better than to trust them. 

 

Because Sicheng is probably one of the last people alive to understand the other man, to see into that pitch soul and not see the tortured hero of Konoha, but a true true monster of god-like proportions. 

 

But Sicheng’s hands are quick, and he grabs the edge of the sword. He feels the buzz and strike of the lightning, but his hands fall quick. Yuta’s look of smug victory is overturned when Sicheng manages to get a good grab on his collar. 

 

The body is sent flying into the forest, spinning out of control as it crashes through trees and bashes against earth. Trunks creak and fall in the wake, and Sicheng just growls as his sore body protests. The lightning is no joke. 

 

He jumps towards the landing sight, feet cracking and shattering dirt as he lands. Sicheng’s fists are ready. 

 

He ducks just in time for a blur of a body to barrel towards him, hands outstretched as a chidori decimates the lake behind him. A new crater has opened up, fish left on dry land, the waters of the pool now swaying uneasily in their new positions. 

 

Sicheng just jumps back, unphased by this destruction. It’s a given when it’s a battle between them. 

 

“Well, we certainly are evenly matched, aren’t we?” Yuta’s comment is just fleeting thing. Plain and lifeless. 

 

“We’ve always been. The three of us have always been.” Sicheng lets his hands fall to his sides. 

 

“Isn’t that sign enough of our duty to each other?” His hands just continue to tighten. 

 

“It’s more of a curse. Imagine not being able to ever best your greatest enemy. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you chase, they always manage to stand upon equal ground. It’s truly a curse.” Twisted sentences, Sicheng finds imaginary pangs thrum through his heart, and he pushes it down. He watches as Yuta’s face unloosens, and simply stretch taut. 

 

“Enemy? Just years ago, you would’ve called me a lover.” Sicheng’s eyes narrow, and his nails dig deep into his skin. 

 

He wants to draw blood. 

 

“Yes. Before you left, before you did the things you did, before you killed Taeil in cold blood and ran with your tail in between your legs. Before, I would’ve said I loved you. But now…” Sicheng raises his arms, and the seal on his forehead grows hot. He closes his eyes, and the tattoo begins to stretch out, familiar and steady. 

 

When he opens his eyes, Yuta is watching him with infuriating tenderness. Black ink tangles across his palm and wrist, and Sicheng lets his chin raise high as he meets Yuta with fierceness. 

 

“Now, you are the only person I need to kill before I can ever rest.” And then his fist sinks heavy into the ground. 

 

The world opens up its great big maw, shattering and falling to pieces as Sicheng lets the full power of his seal work. The chakra that flows through his body is intense, hot and heavy, and so eager to let itself free. Years of amassing chakra into that single point, and now it runs hot and free through his blood. Power bottled, power released. The crater that’s left swallows the entirety of the forest, trees toppling over each other as Sicheng stands amongst the rubble. 

 

But Yuta is quick. Quicker than that. 

 

Lightning is called quickly, and Sicheng leaps up as the ground rumbles. Bursts and sharp spears, and Yuta rises from amongst the rubble untouched and unscathed. Only proud and adoring in that awful way of his. 

 

“If you’re going to be that way, then maybe I’ll be serious.” Sicheng can’t even stop himself from shivering. 

 

Dark piercing eyes, but Sicheng watches as those pupils glow red. 

 

His mouth falls open before snapping shut. Sicheng feels his body absolutely burn, and all that pounds in his mind is hot blood and sheer rage. 

 

“You’re a despicable piece of shit!” Red eyes are matched by a teasing, amused smile, and Sicheng’s anger burns so brightly within him. It burns and burns, and all he wants is to sink his hands into Yuta’s body and tear him apart, piece by piece. 

 

But even as the rage melts hot in his blood, Sicheng can’t stop the trickling tears from flowing down his cheeks. Reluctant tears, unforgiving ones, the kind that are let out by accident, the ones you cannot reign in. 

 

They roll down his cheek, and Sicheng wonders why there’s so much sadness filling him as well. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


When the war finally came to its end, all Sicheng was left with was a sense of great defeat. 

 

The men and women that died beneath his hands numbered less than ten, but even then, that was too much. Because their faces faded much too fast in the rush of bodies, and at some point, Sicheng looked down and only saw a task to complete. 

They hailed him the next greatest medical-nin since Tsunade and Sakura. Pretty words, but the implication is there. 

 

After all, medical-nin are only exalted because violence and destruction exist, because before healing can occur, marks must be made. 

 

Pain and relief must exist in a sick tandem. 

 

They rewarded him for death, they rewarded him for suffering, and Sicheng had only stared at the peaceful battle-scarred landscape, the one that he and his comrades had forcefully carved out, and felt empty. 

 

They say not to forget, but when the world moves too fast and becomes so wildly apathetic, what choice is there but to forget? Names on cold stone, and Sicheng had let his fingers brush over each little indentation. Each name was a person, and each person was a human who he could not save. 

 

To be great is to carry the weight of the world’s expectations, and even though he is not a god, far from it in actuality, what use is the label when there is no proving action? 

 

Team 9 went back to Konoha, and they fell apart in ways that could not be explained. 

 

Yuta had begun researching into his own bloodline, hiding in the depths of the city’s laboratories to chip away at the secrets to some greater power. Maybe the war had shown him just how easily shaken his strength could be. Sicheng didn’t care back then, his own thoughts heavy with laden guilt. 

 

Taeil had put everything he had into rebuilding, into reconnecting families, into providing relief. Hero work, the kind of volunteerism that required a heart far larger than Sicheng himself could muster. Or maybe that was just his excuse back then. 

 

As the both of his teammates worked on their own projects, Sicheng had found himself at a standstill. His family called for their heir, the world cried for his skills, and his own selfish heart had yearned for the kind of peace that-

 

That could not be accomodated. 

 

Those desires, they still writhe within him. But Sicheng wishes he had squashed them then, stomped on those curling vines and tore them out by their roots. 

 

Foolishness is his only reliable and constant trait. 

 

The flashes of a life missed. Walks by a river, winding through a countryside. A small house filled with light, and a door always kept ajar for visitors. 

 

Hands. Soft and warm as they held Sicheng steady and promised him of a future where there was no need for either. 

Neither pain, neither healing. Just existence, in a state of perpetual wholeness that spoke of nothing but purity.

 

And Sicheng would wake, shaking and sweating because these visions were so tangible and real, yet so fleeting. But then he’d slowly withdraw to true reality, to the actuality of his position. 

 

The Hokage’s mission laid cold on his desk, and Sicheng would watch it from his bed, the letters written there already searing into his skin. 

 

Desperation is a powerful thing. And his desperation to escape was stifling at that point. 

 

So when Yuta’s cloak had brushed against him in the night, trees sheltering them from wandering eyes, and his mouth taut and expressionless as he spilled words to Sicheng, and said-

 

“There is a way to fix this.” 

 

Well, what option was there but to say yes? 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Yuta’s speed is intense. Sicheng curses when the man’s sword catches his shoulder, blood running for a moment. But this expression fades when Sicheng lets a smirk crawl unabashedly onto his face. 

 

His fist nicks Yuta’s face, and the mere suggestion of power is enough to send Yuta flying towards the right. 

 

Just a slip in the wind. 

 

Lightning crackles, and Sicheng smoothly dodges the blazing and tipped shurikens, white light framing his face and keeping it lit with a moment of intensity. 

 

A blink of the eye, and Yuta has uprighted himself, charging at him with his fists blazing. Monstrous speed, monstrous power, but Sicheng matches him, his own hands snarling and explosive. 

 

They fight, dodging and weaving through each other’s hits. From afar, it would seem like a simple spar and nothing else, but everytime their bodies meet, the sheer force of the chakra is enough to send shockwaves and rumbles through the earth.  

 

Sicheng slams his foot into the ground, and Yuta’s expression opens up with surprise. The ground beneath them explodes, and Sicheng just yells into the roaring roaring sound of broken earth. 

 

His anger overwhelms.

 

“I regret ever pitying you!” Sicheng’s voice is only met with a flash of steel, as a sword swings near. The sky grows cloudy, and Sicheng leaps back just as Yuta lets out a breath of shocking electricity. It singes Sicheng’s eyelashes, and he lands a couple hundred feet away. 

 

His body lives and breathes with the chakra pulsing through him. 

 

“Pitying me didn’t draw you in.” Yuta gives him no time to breath, and Sicheng knows he wouldn’t either. The man is already before him, feet breaking ground as his sword swings straight for his neck. 

 

Sicheng only lets his hands reach out, gripping deep into Yuta’s skin as the sword slices cleanly through his neck. Blood pours out, and his windpipe expands and loosens, dripping dark maroon between their bodies. 

 

The seal swells to meet him. 

 

_ Creation Rebirth.  _

 

As his wounds knit back together, Sicheng’s hands crack bone, and Yuta is sent hurtling straight downward with the force of one solid and firm punch. 

 

A crater the size of the lake has opened up, and Sicheng admires his handiwork for a moment. Sick pleasures are his to enjoy. The blood is tacky on his skin, and Sicheng stares down at his once white robe, the front stained thick with red. 

 

Yuta’s sword had etched deep into Sicheng’s neck, and the steam rising from his wound joins the hazy sky. 

 

In a matter of moments, his neck is whole again, not a single scar even marking the presence of the cold steel. 

 

From the middle of the smoking crater, Sicheng watches Yuta stand, his eyes narrowed. He’s annoyed. Something that would’ve killed any other person in the world has only irked Yuta. 

 

And something that would have killed any other person in the world just stitched itself back together in a matter of moments for him, throat slit, throat closed. The phantom pain doesn’t linger, and it’s just skin, unmarked and smooth. 

 

“There’s more where that came from, you fucker!” Sicheng screams, his fists clenching as he jumps high into the air. His leg lifts, ready to crush down, break earth. 

 

Split the world apart, and render everything to dust. 

 

Yuta watches, eyes spinning, red and black swirling together in a vicious, deadly spiral. His hands raise up, forming signs that pass and fade quickly. Sicheng only laughs, freely for once. 

 

Who will strike first? 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Yuta had asked him to assist with his experiments. Sicheng had taken one cursory glance at his expression, hungry and dark, and narrowed his eyes. 

 

“What are you asking for?” The other man had stared, mouth expressionless. Always so cool. 

 

“For your healing abilities, for your chakra control, for your expertise.” Then, Yuta had leaned in close over the bar, and his breath had hit the side of Sicheng’s cheek with a chilled puff. 

 

“You’re the only one who could ever comprehend my research.” Those words felt good, and in the inebriated state he was in, a bottle of sake sitting hot and flaming in the pit of his stomach, Sicheng had laughed. 

 

Team 9 may have always been dysfunctional at best, but he trusted in their bond. 

 

Oh, how wrong would he be proven. 

 

But that was then, and that was later. Time matters, and even if everything muddles and runs into each other at some point, there are some things that Sicheng will burn into his mind, sear and sear until it’s absolutely unbudging. 

 

“Be careful, Yuta. One could mistake your words for affection. Imagine the Ice Prince showing any kind of emotion!” His breath is hot, and Yuta’s eyes had settled unnervingly on him as he spoke. Sicheng had felt the heat of that gaze, and mistook it for comradery, fondness. 

“Tch. When did you become such a drunk. You reek of alcohol.” Cold again, but Sicheng had just grinned, teasingly. 

 

“A little drink never hurt anyone. Besides, I can hold my liquor with the best of them. I’m not a complete lightweight like Taeil.” He had hummed then, turning to signal to the waiter for more sake. Yuta had stayed silent, arms crossed as his dark hair framed his face. 

 

“Taeil, huh? You go drinking with him alot?” Sicheng had turned his face then, mouth tight. 

 

He was cognizant even then, but perhaps he didn’t understand the sheer depth to the feelings simmering within Yuta. 

 

“Not really. He just latches onto me. Everytime he gets back, he sticks to me like a leech. I can’t take it, that fucker is too persistent.” Sicheng complains with his jaw jutted out, his legs spread wide, his head tilted back. At ease. 

 

But as he spoke, as he let loose these nagging remarks, they couldn’t hide the swelling sense of fondness in his voice. Sicheng had never been good at hiding himself, preferring to be blunt, to be as blunt as his fists. 

 

A folly perhaps. 

 

“Do you see him now? Who would’ve thought he was just a runt a few years ago. Everyone thought he was a failure.” Sicheng had smiled again, letting his head drop into his arms. His cheeks were flushed, and his arms felt cool against the skin of his face. 

 

“Not you.” Yuta’s voice was barely restrained, and Sicheng had just willfully ignored it. 

 

“What do you mean? I treated him like a kid back then. I was just as-” He was interrupted by Yuta’s words, cold and much too sharp. 

 

“You respected him. You recognized he had potential while Soramaru and I had passed him off easily as a fool and idiot, unfit for the shinobi lifestyle. You spoke to him like a peer, an equal.” A hand brought itself down a bit too harshly on the wooden bar, and Sicheng had raised himself up. 

 

Yuta was tense, shoulders drawn back almost threateningly. 

 

“It’s ironic how the idiot has managed to claw himself up this far.” Sicheng’s fists clenched.  

 

“Yuta…” The other man wasn’t looking at him anymore, head tipped down and hair messily shrouding his visage. 

 

“He became apprentice to a former Hokage, he’s out on missions as much as possible, the whole village celebrates him for what he did during the war, don’t you see it?” The stoicism was thick in his voice, and Sicheng had felt the faint haze of the liquor settle into cold sober reality. 

 

“Soramaru had appointed me as his successor, but by the day, you can see it. The whole entire village, they don’t want me. They don’t want me when-” A crack of wood, another trembling roar, and Sicheng’s fist had pierced straight through the table, shaking the entire building with frightful strength. 

 

Yuta had remained silent then. 

 

“Be quiet!” The anger had pulsed so strong then, and Sicheng didn’t understand why. But he couldn’t stand hearing another second of it. 

 

Was it fear? Fear because the way Yuta had mouthed those words was dark and promising, and Sicheng could only push and push away those possibilities? 

 

He had panted loudly, and Yuta had studied him with that same coolness. Then, the other man had risen, and patted him on the back. 

 

“I’ll see you later.” And he had left, cloak billowing as Sicheng stared down at the mess beneath his feet. The bartender was cowering behind, and Sicheng had just sighed with frustration. 

 

Blunt with his fists, but not with his words. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sicheng breathes in the fresh dewy scent of the early morning, and as he breathes, the sickly sweet smell of burning sap floats along. His feet brush against dust and plain dirt, rustled and jostled here and there. 

 

Wood splinters, bits and pieces of branches, the land they are standing on has been decimated by their own hands. 

 

Sicheng feels the bolts and zaps of electricity course through the earth, unhindered by the natural laws of science that have dictated them. No, with Yuta’s bloodline limit activated, lightning comes to his fingers no matter when, no matter where. 

 

A unique trait, passed down through blood. Talent, born from within genes, centuries of high-breeding culminating in powerful individuals. 

 

Yuta is a product of war, of fine-tuned precision and key traits, of not love, but necessity and innovation. In a time when children truly were the life-blood of a village, not because of the happiness they could bring, but because of the sheer possibility of power, of the hot blood running in their veins that made them another person on the field. 

 

Another body. 

 

Sicheng wonders why he bought so easily into those lessons of ninja loyalty and pride, why he had only perpetuated it all. 

 

His fist clenches hard, and Yuta’s rough exhale is a telltale sign of his pain. He’s not impervious to Sicheng’s brutish strength. 

 

People had always told him that his strength didn’t match his pretty face. It was both an insult and a compliment in a way. But Sicheng took it all the same, with a grin, and a well aimed punch to the gut. 

 

Taeil. Taeil was the one who always said things like that. 

 

“Tell me one thing, Yuta. Tell me why.” His fingers clench harder and harder, and Yuta’s wrists dangle loosely, the bones crushed to bits. Sicheng doesn’t want to see him raise his hand ever again. 

 

“Because the world only has room for two.” Sicheng snarled, hand still tight and tight, and by now Yuta’s skin should be turning blue, his body should be in the throes of death, and yet- 

 

“From the beginning, it’s only been us. We can only understand each other, right? We do what we have to do for the future, and look at what we have done.” His body melts into nothingness, and Yuta’s voice echoes emptily and loudly in his own head. 

 

His mind is being battered. 

 

“This world is peaceful because of us. This world is immaculate because we have made it immaculate. Our hands have breathed life back into every village across the land, our hands have shaped the fabric of society.” Yuta’s lips are cold on his skin again, cold as they draw down his neck, smooth and pale. 

 

His fingers delve into the flesh of Sicheng’s hip, and dark nights fall into his eyes, nights spent together, fire burning its way through oil as they worked tirelessly together. 

 

The screams fall on deaf ears as Sicheng isolates what he needs. 

 

“Don’t try to convince me that what we were doing, what we have done was anywhere close to right. Anywhere close to acceptable.” Sicheng feels a small body beneath his fingers, struggling and writhing as it sought to escape pain. 

 

And Yuta’s expression had been nothing but content, eagerly digging beneath skin and extracting the bits and pieces that were necessary. 

 

Necessary for peace they said. 

 

Sicheng bites hard into his lip, and feels the sting of blood. 

 

The genjutsu falls away at that point, Yuta’s grasp over him receding. And as Sicheng finally manages to get a grasp on his surroundings, Yuta’s sword comes, slicing through him with all the force, all the deadly force that he’s been holding back. 

 

Sicheng feels his spine snap, feels his body bisect, neatly separating into two. But the seal on his forehead burns hot, and not even this is enough. 

 

It’s certainly not enough to kill him. 

 

His hands keep the pieces of his body together, and the skin knits itself back with precision. Steam rises. Yuta watches almost proudly, sword tipped with his own blood, dark red, leaving trails all along the raw earth. 

 

“I’ve always admired that part of you. That cold-blooded determination.” His words are cool and lilting, tinged with all the affection that Yuta is able to muster. 

 

Which is little to none. 

 

“The last thing I need is your admiration.” Sicheng spits onto the ground, posture drawn tight as his fists clench by his sides. His feet dig into the earth, and the mere surge of chakra is enough to leave cracks in the upturned soil. 

 

Yuta’s sword flickers, and Sicheng watches the sky swirl and swirl. The storm clouds are gathering, and Sicheng knows it’s no doubt his work. 

 

“Don’t pretend. You sought my admiration just as much as Taeil sought yours.” Sicheng feels the anger rise up hot and heavy, and his whole body just bristles as his jaw grits tight, so tight that everything is painful and stretched thin. 

 

All he wants is to rip and rip, and Yuta stands before him, smug and composed, like always, like always. 

 

Maybe in the past, Sicheng would’ve conjured up excuses, still found a way to accept all those inevitable flaws in this man. 

 

No. Not anymore. 

 

So Sicheng rises up again, wind whistling in his ears as he winds his arm back, again, once again, for one more round. 

 

Always fruitless, but what was it that Yuta had said? Cold-blooded determination?

 

God, he’s always right. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Taeil had always watched him closely. Always. Sicheng pretended not to notice, but everyone knew, everyone could see. 

 

The village ladies nudged his elbow, grins wide as they made silly eyes at Taeil, always carelessly grinning from the roof, from the street, from every place imaginable. 

 

Eyes on him. Warm infectious eyes, infecting everyone with that same silly grin, with that foolish recklessness and courage that made everyone burn with the same passions that he held. 

 

And the way he talked, always so teasing. Sicheng hated it. But that was what Taeil was, everything infuriating and annoying balled into one person. Always making trouble, always helpful and thoughtful to a fault, and always so-

 

“I love you, Sicheng.” Ah. The first love confession. It came after their first mission, Sicheng’s fists bruised after he beat the shit out of a common thug. Taeil had cowered behind him then, clueless as to how to use his arms or legs. 

 

Sicheng had just turned around, eyes cold. 

 

“I don’t know how you even made it this far, but if this happens again, I’m going to let you get killed-” And then Taeil had rushed forward, arms clinging and sticking. Tears, snot, rubbed into Sicheng’s chest, into his freshly cleaned shirt, and then- 

 

“I love you!” Sicheng had just screamed, fist slamming into the side of Taeil’s face, sending him flying into a tree. The trunk cracked, splitting from the sheer impact. 

 

Soramaru had jumped down from the treeline moments later, Sicheng’s face red and fuming as Taeil winced with every step. Yuta had sent them all an exasperated look, and that was that. 

 

And it wasn’t just a single anecdote. No. 

 

“I love you.” Taeil’s expression was bright, and Sicheng has just looked up at him from his study desk. His family grounds were supposed to have been walled off, but here Taeil was, hanging from his grandfather’s favorite plum tree with an easy grin. 

 

Sicheng had cracked his knuckles before sending Taeil flying over the roof of his family compound. 

 

Moments later, his father was sending him a stern glare, and his mother seemed just a tad amused as the guards fished Taeil out of the koi pond. But Taeil had just looked up at him, drenched head to toe, and laughed. 

 

“You sure pack a mean punch, hime.” Taeil didn’t leave their family grounds without another bruise. 

 

Even when they got older, it didn’t stop. How many times? How many times had Taeil gazed at him with that admiration and warmth, and said those three words? So many times. Endless declarations of love, and Sicheng had just stared him down before cocking his fist. 

 

“I love you!” Sicheng’s yukata was stained with dirt as Taeil placed a grubby hand on his shoulder, wildflowers held out towards him. 

 

“Love you.” Whispered into his ear as they sat in the bushes during a mission. Sicheng’s hand was clenching a kunai at that point, and he had pressed it to Taeil’s foot, drawing a slight wince. 

 

“Love you, hime.” A kissy face, disgusting as Taeil tried to reach him from over the table. Yuta’s expression was deadly, and Soramaru had just laughed when Sicheng shoved Taeil’s face straight into the plate of dango between them. 

 

So meaningless. Those words became so meaningless from him, and Sicheng had just taken it as childhood infatuation, as a joke that extended over the years between them. And then-

 

The war hit, and then, and then- 

 

“I love you. I love you, Sicheng.” Kisses dropped onto his forehead, onto his bloody fingers, and the body that had suddenly convulsed with death was hidden from him with Taeil’s broad shoulders, uniform suddenly tight over his chest. Large, warm, and Sicheng had gaped as the chakra leaked from his hands uselessly. 

 

Where did that little runt go? The one that Sicheng could send flying, the one who trailed after him annoyingly, always tugging at his shoulder with that sense of familiarity that Sicheng couldn’t help but feel, and feel warmly. 

 

Who was this man that stood before him? Shoulders bracketing his, eyes staring into his, pupils dark and serious. 

 

“It’s not your fault. You did well.” And Taeil had hugged him so tight, that Sicheng felt like their bodies were going to meld together. 

 

It was a shock. Or maybe it was just the veil of ignorance that had been pulled finally from his eyes. Either way, Sicheng had pulled away, those three words sinking and settling deep into his ears and-

 

Scared. Scared for what? Sicheng didn’t know. The war weighed too heavily then, and there was no room for things like love, for things like emotions to take root. Sicheng couldn’t let them take root, not when he had a duty to fulfill, one that required the proper apathy. 

Taeil had stared at him, first hurt, and then knowing. God. God, that was the worst part wasn’t it? 

 

No matter how much Sicheng hurt him, no matter how much pain Sicheng could put him through, the man never stopped. Never stopped watching. 

 

Never stopped watching him like that, with that boundless affection and admiration brimming in his pupils. 

 

* * *

 

“Is this your repentance?” Sicheng laughs, watching as Yuta barely dodges his fist. The landscape roars, and it’s as if the whole world is just bending to their will. Earth flowing like water, lightning raining down with a flick of the hand, and at the center of it all, just two people. 

 

Two people, with the kind of power that isn’t needed anymore. 

 

“Yes.” Yuta seems pleased by Sicheng’s answer, and it’s a bit infuriating giving him the answers he wants to hear. 

 

“Repentance? Or revenge?” The ground crackles, and Sicheng is just in time, leaping backwards as the clouds scream with light and sound. Thunder booms, and all that’s left is the acrid scent of ozone. 

 

“Both. It’s both!” They meet in the middle, the distance closing between them quick. His fists manage to latch onto Yuta, pain stinging and racing through his body as he’s electrified. But he bears it, hands red and stinging as he sends Yuta hurtling with a quick grab and toss. 

 

Yuta skids, face irritated as the rock digs deep. 

 

Sicheng leaps, leg lifting high and bringing itself down quick and sharp. The earth creaks, opening up once again. It’s scarred, and these scars will last. 

 

His body disappears in the rubble, and Sicheng hopes he’s buried for good. 

 

But of course it’s all a dream, and Yuta rises up, blasting through as the rocks burst apart. Fire licks, and the wind screams and screams, earth raining down from the sky as the world opens back up. 

 

“Repentance for toying with Taeil’s heart. Revenge against me for leaving. I’m right, aren’t I?” Sicheng’s vision is only streaked with red, a yell escaping him, brutal and quick. He wants to leave Yuta beaten, broken, so hopelessly torn apart that nothing in the world could heal him. 

 

But his fists don’t reach, Yuta’s face tight and a dreadful smile crossing his expression as lightning rains from the sky, crisscrossing and blackening the earth with soot and ash. Sicheng is forced back, breathing heavy with anger. 

 

“Aren’t you just as despicable as me? How can you ever claim the moral high-ground when all you’ve done is harm us all?” It’s piercing, and Sicheng can’t help but let the truth sink deep and deep. 

 

He knows. He knows. 

 

“Taeil died thinking you loved him. When all you were doing was-” And Sicheng can only cut Yuta off with another crackling, earth-shattering fist. 

 

Because that’s all he can do. All he could ever do. 

 

As Yuta sinks his sword into Sicheng’s arm, cold fingers trace along his spine, meticulous and possessive as those same lips uttered something indistinguishable in the faint light of their room. 

 

As Sicheng catches Yuta’s ribs, and feels those bones break, one by one, he hears his own voice ring with warm affection, calling out that name, over and over as the lake rippled thick with moonlight. 

 

The past is thick between them, and yet all they can do is swallow it down the best they can. 

 

“You don’t get to judge me, you don’t get to lecture me on my own sins.” It’s hissed out, and Sicheng feels the tendons of his shoulder knit back slowly and surely, his seal still pumping hot. The chakra is deadly inside, feeling more like scalding flame than his own life energy. 

 

“But I can.” Yuta’s eyes roam over him, his hands clutching his ribs as he smiles that same, icy smile. The one that resembles more of an aggravating smirk than anything else. The infuriating expression, the one that made Taeil scowl even more like a child, and Sicheng just sigh. 

 

Ah. The memories bleed too strong. 

 

“I can break you more. I won’t stop.” It’s a threat, and Sicheng lets his fists draw back into position. 

 

Yuta watches, amused. His face loses its smirk, and his eyes grow as soft as they can be. As soft as his demeanor could ever allow itself to be. The lines there fade, and Sicheng wishes he had the strength to look away. 

 

The man who he once loved stares at him melancholically, lips twisted sweetly, and brows unfurrowed. Just desperate, vulnerable. 

 

That was what made Sicheng even falter in the first place, made him let his head and heart go, and divulge in silly fantasies and dreams. 

 

Dark eyes flicker, and Sicheng pulls himself out of his reverie, tears himself from the tendrils of nostalgia that threaten to overcome him. 

 

It seems as him Yuta has come to his senses as well, mouth hardening and face growing cold as stone. 

 

His voice is stoic. 

 

“Then come. Let me feel it.” That’s enough for Sicheng to leap forward, aching for pain. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Twinkling, that’s the sound that graced his ears as Yuta fucked into him hard and rough, almost unfeeling and mechanical. But everything still twinkled, because Sicheng was head over heels in love, and nothing but death could remove the silk cloth over his eyes. 

 

The children, their cries and sobs echoing in the corridor, the door left ajar as they fucked on Yuta’s desk, papers mixing with their lewd grunts and trembling limbs. 

 

It was a rough day, but every day was rough, and maybe that was what started it in the first place. 

 

Two lonely broken men, cast out by the very world they chose to save, rejecting connection but also yearning so deeply for it that they resorted to depravity. 

 

As Yuta bit into his skin, Sicheng felt the skin of one of their subjects beneath his fingers, bloody and trembling as Yuta held open the cavity etched deep into the small chest. Blood poured out, and the screams seemed endless. 

 

And all Sicheng could do was prolong the suffering, chakra held strong to keep the subject alive. 

 

Yuta extracted what he needed, and Sicheng let go. 

 

Death is so common, and after a while, the impact of the whole thing really fades, doesn’t it? The subject, no- 

 

The boy. No. Maybe it was better to think of them as subjects. 

 

A means to an end, an end that would finally bring the world to the peace that Sicheng craved. 

 

“I’m close.” Yuta had grunted into his ear, and Sicheng had breathed in those words like air, mouth agape and wanton for more. His hands scrabbled against the other man’s back, and the light of the lamp cast them both in a faint yellow glow. 

 

The desk creaks, the door is still ajar, and Sicheng cums with his head tipped back, eyes open as he stares blankly into the hallway, bars glinting in the corner of his eye. Yuta’s hands had dragged over him, possessively, softly, and Sicheng then closed them. 

 

Closed his eyes. 

 

Closed their eyes, the child’s. His fingers were so gentle as they brushed those tiny lids closed, skin pale and blood draining out into dark pools. Yuta was in the corner, pencil making careful calculations as he tossed his gloves into a bin. 

 

In those caverns, in those twisting tunnels below the village, with the permission of Soramaru, eyes steel as he signed that order- 

 

“This one’s losing their vitals. We need the blood pumping.” Yuta was behind him, body pressed hard against his. Warm, tangible, and in that moment, it was so harrowing that Sicheng felt his knees quake. 

 

The specimen screamed, and Sicheng looked down and realized- 

 

“I’m not numb, I’m not-” And then his hands had pulled away completely, leaving the heart still in a matter of moments. 

 

Yuta had sighed like he was dealing with an unruly child. 

 

“Don’t be childish. You’re doing this for the greater good.” Limp body, swept off the table and onto the floor with a sick crunch that made Sicheng shiver more. Dark eyes, gazing aimlessly at nothing. 

 

“I’ll get the next one.” And Yuta had kissed along his ear, hips taut against him as he rubbed himself along Sicheng with all the cold possessive instinct of an animal. Just pure cold greed. 

 

But Sicheng had still stood there, eyes glazing over with excuses of affection. 

 

Yuta had left later, cum slipping down Sicheng’s legs as his thighs shook. The steps grew farther and farther, and Sicheng was still frozen to that cold table, blood still warm on steel, and chastised himself for choosing to feel a thing.

 


End file.
